Saturday, March 17, 2012

All the kids in the neighborhood thought that Lela was a witch. She certainly looked the part with her long faded skirts and oversized, threadbare sweaters. She was a small person, bony and thin, and her face was as withered as an old apple, with wide set eyes that peered out anxiously from deep sockets. She wore her long hair, which was the color of tired whites, pinned up except for once a month when she let it down to wash it. Lela didn't use shampoo: she washed her hair with a bar of Ivory Soap, and in an age of products like Breck and Prell, this seemed extremely odd and old timey. When the weather was warm enough, Lela washed her hair outdoors in a basin set up on a table on her porch, and then let it fly free as she skipped absently up and down Cherry Street, singing softly to herself until it was dry.

Lela lived with her older brother Burt in a faded two story house on the corner of Sargent and Cherry Streets in Norwood, the section of Warwick, RI, where I grew up. Her yard was separated from ours by a border of pale gold iris's which, when you closed your eyes and sniffed them, smelled exactly like root beer. Her house was older than most of the homes in Norwood which were built at the end of WWII, and had sprung up en masse like mushrooms after a summer rain. It had Victorian details; ornate woodwork atop the columns on the back porch, and a gabled roof, and for as long as I could remember, was in need of paint. On Lela's property there was also a dark old musty garage with a dirt floor, and a smaller building that had once been a chicken coop.

On sunny days, Lela and Burt sat outdoors in two old wooden chairs by the side of the garage. They were always bundled in layers of clothing of indeterminate colors, even on hot summer days. Burt sometimes plucked at a banjo, but otherwise they simply sat for hours, facing the sun, with their cats asleep at their feet. Burt died before I entered grade school so I mostly remember Lela living alone. After Burt was gone, Lela wandered the streets alot, talking to her herself, carrying a broom for a walking stick. What am I gonna do? she'd mutter. What am I gonna do? Occasionally she'd wander into our yard, where my Grandmother stood hanging the wash on our clothesline. What am I gonna do? she'd ask her. My Grandmother had no tolerance for Lela and shooed her away as if she was a pesky crow. That Lela is not right in the head, she'd say, disdainfully.

Lela was the only person in the neighborhood who actually stopped The Rag Man, as he floated slowly up and down the streets in an ancient pick up truck, yelling, Rags! Raags! in his wrecked and spooky monotone. She waited for him on the curb, waving her hand in the air and yodeling, YooHoo, YooHoooo! over his hoarse, insistant, Rags, Raags! until he stopped. Lela gave him her bundle of rags in exchange for a few cents, which she would snap into a small leather change purse that she kept in her sweater pocket.

Sometimes Lela stopped me on the street and handed me some coins from her purse. She always asked me to go to the corner market to buy the same two items: a can of Calo Cat Food and a box of chocolate covered graham crackers. Lela had no teeth, and I imagined that the graham crackers were easy to chew. I'd run to the store, purchase the crackers and cat food, then head to her house and knock on her back door. I could see her stooped figure approaching through the sheer curtain as she inched her way down the stairs to let me in. Once inside the back hall I was overwhelmed by the odor of cat urine. And another smell: Noxema. Cat pee, Noxema, and Ivory Soap; these were the smells in Lela's house. Lela took the grocery bag and the change from my hand and thanked me. Then she'd turn and say, What am I gonna do? and walk back up the stairs. I never saw beyond this back hallway, not until my late teens.

I was having a rough winter my first year out of high school. It was the early spring of 1973, and I had started the fall semester at URI, then dropped out. I was too distracted by my relationship with my boyfriend, and getting stoned every day. I was back living with my parents and feeling quite depressed. I took a job working the assembly line at Hasbro Toys in Pawtucket, putting the legs on GI Joe dolls, quit that, then tried waitressing in a bar, and quit that, too. Both jobs were equally depressing. In the meantime, while looking for another job, I took care of my parents' house while they were at work: I cleaned, prepared supper, and hung out the wash. Lela would spot me and walk slowly over to the clothesline, broom/cane in hand.What am I gonna do? she asked me. I didn't dismiss her the way that my Grandmother had. I didn't know what I was going to do either. I started to invite Lela in for tea. She'd sit with a downturned mouth, looking worriedly around my mother's kitchen. My parents didn't like this. Why are you bothering with Lela? they asked, perturbed. I think that they thought of her like a stray cat or dog, and that once you fed one, you could never get rid of it. She has family, they insisted, A nephew, and he looks in on her and gives her money. But I knew that Lela needed more than this.I began to take her over a plate of the supper I cooked each evening. She was grateful. The first time that I followed her up the stairs through the door to her kitchen, I was shocked to see how bare the place was. The kitchen was very old fashioned, with wainscoting and high cupboards: there had once been wallpaper but it had long since peeled off, and the trim paint was filthy and chipped. Lela slept in an adjoining room that had once been a sitting room: now there was only a narrow wrought iron bed with yellowed linens, a worn wooden dresser, and a chair. Most curious of all was a flush toilet that sat out in the open in one corner.

I began to visit Lela during the day as well. I got used to the smell. Typically I'd find her lying in bed with her cats. One day when I arrived, Lela was up and rummaging through the top drawer of her dresser. She pulled out a couple of old photos of herself and Burt, and showed them to me. Then Lela told me that she used to have pictures of her parents, but she'd ripped them up and thrown them away. Why did you do that, Lela? I asked her gently. She became agitated and did not answer. I wondered what her childhood had been like, and I tried to picture Lela as a little girl in this house when the paint had been glossy and new.

It was around this time that I began to consider going back to school, to study art therapy, and I got the notion that I could rehabilitate Lela. I walked over to her house manned with paper and paints, determined to to get her to make some art. No, YOU paint, she instructed me. So I sat and painted. One day Lela asked me to paint a picture on the bare cracked wall above her bed. Paint me a Bird of Paradise, she commanded, I want to lie here and look at a Bird of Paradise. The next morning I brought over the encyclopedia, stood on her chair, and referencing the colorful photograph in the book. painted an enormous Bird of Paradise on the wall in gaudy rainbow hues. Lela laid back on her pillow and smiled her toothless smile. Ah, it's beautiful, she sighed.

Soon after this Lela became ill and was taken away in an ambulance. After several days she returned home from the hospital and visiting nurses started to come to her house daily to give her her medication and to bring meals on wheels. I felt relieved that Lela was finally getting this care. I had found a steady job cleaning rooms at a hotel near the airport, and had gotten clean myself. No more smoking pot. I enrolled for the fall semester at RIJC.

Lela died that October, and the house sat empty with a For Sale sign on the front lawn all the following winter. In the spring, a young couple with two small children, a boy and a girl, bought Lela's house and began to renovate the place. I watched from my parents' kitchen window as they carried wheelbarrow loads of plaster down the sidewalk, and nailed up vinyl siding. I wondered what they thought about The Bird of Paradise? Did they smile at it the way Lela had? Or did they hurry to cover it with fresh paint, anxious to erase it along with the smell of cat pee, Noxema and Ivory Soap...

Friday, March 16, 2012

The Gallogly's lived behind us: their house was on Sargent Street, ours was on Maple. They had six kids, same as us, same as many of the households in Norwood. Families back then had six, seven, even eight kids: this was the 50's after all, and the peak of the Baby Boom. Norwood was a lower middle class section of Warwick, the suburb of Providence, Rhode Island, where I grew up, and its streets were teeming with kids; kids walking to and from school or hanging out together jumping rope, kids playing Kick the Can, or a game of Red Rover. There was always someone to play with, and all you had to do was go to a friend's back door and yell. I learned to do this by following my older sister.

My sister Debby was friends with Barbara Gallogly, the oldest of the Gallogly clan. Debby stood at the Gallogly's back door and yelled, "Hey, Bar-braaaaa!" dragging out the second syllable in the sing song manner reserved for this greeting. When kids got older, they dropped the "Hey" and simply called aloud their friend's name. This was a more casual and grown-up call, and the unspoken rule was that you could only do it this way if you were a teenager. Barbara's little brother Michael was my age, and he was my first friend. The dirt path beaten between our houses led from my back door to his: it ran past the lilac bushes, past the giant cherry tree, and past Mr. Gallogly's dilapidated garage which housed an ancient jalopy. I ran down this path every day and stood at the base of the Gallogly's worn wooden steps and yelled, "Hey, Michael!" like I'd learned from my sister. Mrs. Gallogly would appear at the door, tell me to wait one minute, and after a few seconds Michael would come scrambling eagerly down the steps to me.

Michael Gallogly had elfish eyes set in a round face constellated with dark freckles, and big ears that stuck straight out in a friendly, attentive manner. I attribute my lack of squeamishness about bugs and worms to my friendship with him, because our favorite thing to do was dig holes in his back yard with the kitchen spoons that Mrs. Gallogly handed out to us. We dug through layers of dirt to find the purply pink earthworms we used as drivers for Michael's team of Tonka trucks. We didn't own any dolls this small, so we placed the gritty worms on the front seats of the little cabs behind the tiny steering wheels. Mrs. Gallogly poked her head out the kitchen window and yelled to us, "Are you digging a hole to China?" then laughed. I never knew what this meant. Some days she'd bring Kool-Aid out to us in those tall shiny aluminum drinking glasses that came in all the colors of an oil spill rainbow.

Michael and I were best friends from the time I could walk, up until first grade. We climbed to the top branches of his cherry tree in the summer to stuff our mouths full of the sweet, red fruit. Sometimes we couldn't wait for the cherries to ripen and we'd eat them crunchy and green, even though his mother would yell at us that we'd get a belly ache. We sat in his father's old jalopy side by side on the cracked leather seats and pretended we were married and going for a drive. We scavanged dirty tin cans out of the trash, and using sticks we mixed together remnants of bacon grease, marshmallow Fluff, grape jelly and ketchup, then poured this "poison" over ants and watched them squirm. One time when I was swinging on his swing, Michael came over and kissed me.

In my parents' photo albums there are black and white pictures of Michael and me. In summer we went barefoot and naked except for our white cotton underpants, and ran through fountains made by the donut shaped sprinkler hooked up to the thick black hose in my back yard. Afterwards, we'd lay down on towels spread out on the grass, our underpants sagging heavily with water, panting and smiling as we faced each other, enjoying the hot sun on our wet backs.

When we started school we were both assigned to Mrs. Jaquolenzer's first grade classroom. We were not seated next to each other: Michael's seat was in the row in front of mine, but I felt glad and comforted to see the back of his head with his fuzzy crew cut and those sticky out ears. There was a girl seated next to Michael named Janet Tremblay. Each morning we would sing the Good Morning Song: Good morning, good morning, good morning to you! Good morning, good morning, and how do you do? and turn to the person next to us and shake their hand.

Every day I watched Michael turn and smile at Janet Tremblay and shake her hand. Then one day in the school yard, just before the bell, a boy in my class ran up and told me that Michael had given Janet a necklace, and that he'd seen Michael kiss her on the mouth behind the school.That morning as we sang the Good Morning Song, I studied Janet Tremblay: I looked at her hair and her dress. Then I looked down at her shoes: they were the same style as mine, a Mary Jane with a thick strap and a big buckle, only mine were brown, and hers were red. Suddenly I felt plain and inadequate. I was sure that this was why Michael now loved Janet better than me. This was the first time that I recall feeling jealous, and it was the beginning of self-consciousness and comparing myself to others and coming up feeling deficient and unlovable.

I stopped calling at Michael's door and made new friends; Patty Gardiner, Susan Bertrum, Janet McLaughlin, and the year went by. After school let out that summer, I sat looking out my screen window one night, and in the streetlamp light I saw Michael running up Maple Street to catch the ice cream truck. As I watched him, I felt a deep yearning. I knew that I was having a grown up feeling and it confused me. I didn't know what I was yearning for, for I was only seven, and I felt old and sad, as if I knew already that this yearning would become familiar, and that it would follow me my whole life the way my eyes followed Michael now, as he ran through the pool of golden lamplight, then disappeared into the dark summer night.

My fortieth high school reunion is this year, and my classmates and I have been sharing stories from our youth on a Facebook Page created for that purpose. This prompted me to re-post this short story which I wrote for a memoir class at MECA in 2005.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I visited the MFA in Boston last weekend, and saw oodles of wondrous things. And after taking in walls and walls of paintings and glass cases filled with artifacts, there is always ONE THING that rises to the surface of the sea of viewed objects and haunts me after a trip to the museum. One time it was an Alice Neel portrait, another time a vivid green painting by Arthur Dove, and after yet one other museum trip, what stuck with me was a small charcoal self-portrait scribbled on a napkin by Picasso.

This time it was this wonderfully animated portrait bust in the Renaissance section of the museum, painted with brilliant majolica glazes. I just love her expression.

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I am an artist, an art teacher, a mother of five children, and a grandmother of four, and I live with my husband and our two cats in the woods of Woolwich, Maine. I teach drawing classes through the Continuing Studies Department at Maine College of Art in Portland, and now privately in my new (!) studio @ 72 Front Street, Bath. My blog 'Martha Miller' shares my art, my process, and my inspirations, and my blog 'Not Bad Thing' showcases my daughter Lisbeth's artwork and process. It is also where I share my experience as a mother of an adult child with special needs. You can see more of my artwork on my website @ www.marthamiller.com